


Oh what a Grace is this

by middlemarch



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Ballet, Family, Gen, Grandmothers, Swans, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 03:56:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8188691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: At fourteen, Sybil longed to be en pointe.





	

“Oh, but Granny, wouldn’t it have been splendid to see the Ballet Russes? Imagine Diaghilev—oh, and Anna Pavlovna herself, as the Dying Swan or the dragonfly with those gossamer wings? Do you think they truly were embroidered silver and gold thread? Oh how I wish I might have seen her, could even dance before her, just once!”

Violet tucked away the smile Sybil universally engendered with her various enthusiasms. Cora was too indulgent with her and of Robert, the less said the better, but she couldn’t help admitting the child was a darling. She could hardly fathom that Sybil was her grandchild, save that the girl had the look of Rosamund around her eyes, and a certain imperviousness to criticism and commentary that Violet prized in herself. Mary was her undisguised favorite, so clear-eyed and contained, imperious and with the best seat of any of them, but Violet had such a fondness for young Sybil. She wasn’t a woman prone to guilt, so she worried not at all about her glossing over of Edith; Robert’s middle child was a changeling, as if a vicar’s daughter from Northumbria had been dropped in their midst, all Brontë sighs about longing for the moors or the, what had she said at tea, “the cold flame of conviction, the blazing purity of the tortured soul.” Mary had dismissed her, saying tartly “What rubbish, Edith, you sound like a third-rate lady novelist” and even Cora had mildly said, “Edith, perhaps not at tea, you do sound a bit overwrought, dear.” Sybil had not joined them yet though when she did, she’d made her entry as dramatic as she could, posing in the doorway as if she wore Pavlovna’s wings and slippers already, her little hands fluttering beneath her pointed chin. She had been firmly entrenched in her love of ballet for a few weeks, which meant they had reached the inflection point and she would shortly find some new interest, likely equally inappropriate that Cora allowed her to wallow in.

“ _La petite sauvage_? I see her appeal to you, dear Sybil, but remember, she lives in Golders Greer now, with those obnoxious swans everywhere about. Why, she’s even named one Jack! So tiresome to be nearly throttled with symbolism,” Violet replied, pleased to see Sybil’s light undimmed by her critique.

“But to see her dance! And the romance of the swans!”

“They are not so romantic when they are chasing you, as they did to Lady Hood’s maid. Never have I heard such screams, not even when the Tsar came to the Imperial Ballet,” Violet replied.

“Oh, was the poor maid hurt? She must have been terribly frightened,” Sybil exclaimed. She was all exclamations and italics and it seemed Cora and the latest governess were doing nothing to drum it out of her.

“No, it was the swans screaming. Pavlovna’s gardener hadn’t fed them, she sacked him, but it was quite the merry dance, watching the maid run and Pavlovna calling for the gardener, they upset the tea table and there were crumpets positively sailing through the air, much more entertaining than Paquita and of course, much more pleasant in the fresh air. Pavlovna serves a better tea than an Englishwoman, she has more to prove,” Violet said. Mary laughed but Sybil was not to be derailed.

“My soul clamors for pirouettes and bourrées!”

“Dear, you are a Crawley. The last time our souls clamored for anything French, it was the Conquest,” Violet replied.

“Oh, Granny, must you always have the last word?” Sybil finally slumped in her chair, the series of jetés she’d made from the doorway reaching their inevitable conclusion. Violet sipped her tea, Ceylon not China, what was Cora thinking? Sybil’s mouth was full of tea-cake and she’d folded her slender legs under her. Violet peered at Cora who, as usual, only beamed at her youngest child, leaving the heavy lifting to Violet as ever.

“It’s poor form to be so obvious but I suppose I must.” 

Mary gracefully tilted her head towards Violet then in recognition and appreciation and bright-eyed amusement, just as the prima ballerina had done to the Tsarina at the gilded Imperial Ballet Violet remembered from St. Petersburg, and the performance was complete.

**Author's Note:**

> So, here's a little offering for the unofficial Downton Abbey Season 7, including the dance prompt. Anna Pavlovna (nicknamed la petite sauvage by her peers for her unusual dancing style) was a famous ballerina who originated the "Dying Swan" among other famous dances. She did move to Golders Greer in England and she did keep swans and her favorite was named Jack. It was the form for the Imperial Russian ballet for the ballerina to bow to the Tsar at the end of the performance, first and foremost. I apologize if my Violet is not up to Fellowes and Maggie Smith's caliber but she is tremendously challenging to write well whereas Sybil is a peach.
> 
> The title is from Emily Dickinson.


End file.
